


Meeting Again

by angryjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjohn/pseuds/angryjohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is set after the Reichenbach. This was the first ever fic I wrote and is full of major angst and nothing else. John Watson is deeply angry at what Sherlock did to him by leaving. The reason it's so angsty is I was trying to imagine what John must have been through after the Reichenbach, poor John my baby!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Again

**Author's Note:**

> Quite out of date now as I wrote it months ago before series 3 but I only just made myself an Archive's account. Future fics of mine will be more current and will almost certainly include fields of johnlock, as I am a massive shipper. Btw incase you get too depressed: my head-canon in this world is that John does forgive and love Sherlock again, and apologise for acting this way. Enjoy! -is probably not the right word. 
> 
> (Any improvements or handy hints for future fics are appreciated.)

Meeting Again

John gazed around the emptying station. People were boarding and hugging and buying tickets in hurried, distracted movements, so each hug and greeting and goodbye was half-hearted. Why didn’t they just leave enough time to say goodbye he wondered. Everyone waits to the last minute, it’s silly, it means proper goodbyes are rare.

His eyes came to rest on a pair of black boots. The man who belonged to them was collapsed on a chair, reading the same paper as John. He was about the only other person in the station looking relaxed and careless. John wasn’t hurried because his train didn’t leave for another half an hour. He wondered if this man was getting the same train.

His eyes travelled up the man’s sprawled legs, John was too far away for the man to realise he was staring. The man wore a big coat, like John’s old best friend, and seemed to be emitting the same casual elegance and self confidence that his former friend had possessed. Christ! He even had the same mop of black, tangled curls. It was like walking into the past. He had to get a closer look at the man’s face. Had Sherlock had a twin?

He jumped up eagerly, ignoring the small sad thought that this was the most excited he’d felt in nearly two years. Trying to be discreet, he walked closer to the man whilst seemingly looking at the arrivals board behind him, the man didn’t look up, and John didn’t dare look directly at him. He sat on a nearer bench, having convincingly seen no arrivals concerning him.  
He looked up and then down again quickly. Then he did a double take.

No.

“Yes, hello John.” said the man, not looking up from his paper.

No!

His eyes widening, pulse quickening, emotion flooding through him as though it had been dammed in a secret part of himself for nearly two years. TWO FUCKING YEARS!

“C- c- No.” He choked out. An exceptionally feeble response considering the emotion and buzzing and whirring he was experiencing in his exceptionally confused brain.

“Yes John.” He was looking directly at John now, those blue eyes piercing. God he had missed that intense, focused, piercing stare.

“John, are you okay?” Remarkably, John felt sort of normal. Well, accept for the sprinting emotions and disjointed thoughts.  
The betrayal and hurt and anger and stabbing, stinging sobs that he could feel rising painfully in his throat. Remarkably, John kept a straight face while asked such a question.

“N-no.” He got out, then, “come with me.”

“John, we’re both getting the next train to London. You don’t want to miss it, seeing as Mary has already been stood up once and is seriously considering..”

But John was already walking away, out the first door he come to, into the first dingy alley he found which was mercifully empty at 7:00 on a Wednesday, something that would never have happened in London.

John was shaking. He walked right to the end of the dead-end alley and almost tried to keep walking, he thought perhaps if he closed his eyes and continued he would just walk through the wall and into a another world.

But he stopped. He stared at the wall. He wondered for a moment if Sherlock had even followed him but-.  
“John?”

John turned. He met Sherlock’s stare and looked daggers at him. Not playful daggers, not daggers softened by love or attraction, real daggers. Pure and utter loathing and hatred and contempt burned in his eyes as he fixed Sherlock with a stare that scorched and was intended to hurt, not punish or get revenge, just hurt.

“John- I-”

“I hate you.”

“I-”

“I hate you.” John was growling like a hungry wolf. An evil, sneering one.

“John! I-”

John took quick steps closing the distance between them.

“John wait-”

WHAMM! John punched Sherlock full in the jaw. Sherlock staggered back, surprised as John took aim again. Punch. Punch. Punch. There was a sickening crack from Shelock’s nose and a whimper. Sherlock’s lip was split and his right eye was unable to open before he actually fell over. John just jumped down on top of him and raised his fist again.

“John, wait!”

“NO!” John shouted, making them both jump. “I’VE DONE ENOUGH. FUCKING. WAITING. SHERLOCK.”  
John got up, pacing away from the beaten man.

“How dare you. How DARE you.” John was breathing heavily and erratically, finding it hard to contain a sob. Sherlock was still on the ground. Turning into something he thought he’d never be, John came back and kicked him. Kicked him while he was already down and bleeding. Kicked him in the groin, stamped on his shin, stepped down hard on his beautiful hair. He wanted Sherlock to feel some ounce of the pain he had been through, the pain that had caused him endless, _endless_ sobbing nights curled up alone in 221b. The pain he had eventually suppressed dammed up in his head so he would be able to function. The pain that had all come crashing back when he realised who was sitting on the bench opposite him in that train station.

“John, let me explain.” John let out a choked, derisive laugh. “John! Listen, I had to, I had to-” Sherlock’s voice was urgent, pleading, getting higher with panic.

“You had to? You _had_ to?” John’s voice was abruptly cold and full of loathing, disgust even. “Since when have you _had_ to do anything Sherlock, if you do anything it’s because you want to. You’re a spoiled brat. You’re a cruel, loathsome, sadistic spoiled brat who- who-”John was feeling another explosion rising in him again. He briefly thought that he didn’t actually want to kill Sherlock, did he? Well... Sherlock could come back from the dead it seemed, perhaps that was what he needed, another good killing.

“John, it was the only way. The only way to save you.”

“If this is saving, I think I’d rather-”

“You would have died John, you would be dead right now, the only way-”

“The only way?”

“The only way to save you, yes.” Sherlock sounded irritated now. _He_ sounded irritated? _Him?_

“You have no right- ” John choked. “...You had no right to- to- put me through that.”

Sherlock looked confused. He frowned a little with wide, innocent eyes. But John refused to see innocence in this man.  
“You are foul, you are evil. You are cruel, sadistic, cold, inhuman and-, and a fake.”

“John I-”

“No.”

“John can’t you- ?”

“No!”

  
“But you, John you don’t know what I’ve done for you. I- I’ve tried so hard and- John?”

John was walking away.

“JOHN!”

“Piss off.”


End file.
